


Keep Your Hands Off The Girls

by goingbadly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Crossdressing, Dubious Consent, M/M, Moriarty messing with Sebastian, PWP, Panty Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Reichenbach, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Very minor plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:10:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingbadly/pseuds/goingbadly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Moran, on Moriarty's orders, shows up to a strip-club. Odd orders, too. Show up, get drunk, 'do what comes naturally.' Sebastian is sulking, but he's planning on following through - especially when the last girl gets up on stage and 'what comes naturally' becomes increasingly obvious. Shameless PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Your Hands Off The Girls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NailBunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NailBunny/gifts).



> This is M/M PLEASE JUST - IT'S M/M OKAY
> 
> ...  
> Do not blame me for this I swear to god I'm not responsible. Thanks to NailBunny for the prompt. Anyone else got something they want filled?

“Whiskey. Something cheap and dirty.”

“We don’t do cheap here,” the bartender sniffs, offended. He looks at Moran down his nose, like gelled hair and a position behind the bar makes him part of the glorious douche-bag master-race.

He’s the kind of guy that acts tough to make girls wet their panties. He’s got knuckle-tattoos and a _Tapout_ shirt,for fuck’s sake. Moran is already picturing his head mounted on a pike outside King’s Cross.

“Whiskey,” Seb repeats, snarling the word through his teeth as if it is the foulest curse known to mankind. He drums his fingers on the bar. One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four. It’s almost in time with the obnoxious strobe light that takes over the room between strippers.

Of all the places Moran wanted to be on a Tuesday night, a titty-bar with delusions of being hard was _last_ on his list. The bartender pours him Jack Daniels – _oh, Christ, what **would** you consider cheap whiskey, then? –_ with the wounded pride of a peacock’s bent feather. Moran pays 3 pounds for it (bloody _murder_ ) and heads for a seat near the stage.

He’d be cursing Moriarty for sending him here, if he knew exactly who to curse. He’s been working with the so-called Shadow King for six months now and is yet to even _see_ the guy. It’s all enigmatic text messages and whispers in alley ways and on one memorable occasion, a carrier pigeon.

Already dead.

Thrown through his window.

At three AM.

 _Maybe I **do** need the whiskey. _ Moran takes a stiff drink and his seat, respectively. His instructions are as follows: Show up. Buy cheap whiskey. Watch the girls. _Do what comes naturally._ And if that’s creepy as fuck, well, it’s Moriarty’s world and we’re all just living in it.

The first girl is classic stripper fare – a blonde with butterfly tattoos and patiently fake tits, who writhes her way across the stage in defiance of basic physics. She’s wearing enough sequins to bring back Elvis. Moran starts drinking a whole lot faster.

Her set is two songs long and she leaves a wet smear on the floor. Moran eyes it with open disgust. Moriarty better have something fucking _bloody_ to reward him with for doing this. Even the drinks aren’t helping make this experience any less awful – Sebastian’s got six empty shot-glasses lined up and he’s already started asking for triples because the doubles just aren’t cutting it.

Now, an alarm should probably trigger in his brain when they actually _clean_ the stage between the second and third strippers, but the eighth Jack Daniels has gone down even more smoothly than the ones before it. Moran is starting to feel actually pretty good about tonight. _Fuck_ Moriarty. He’ll blow off the job, take home one of the strippers ( _not_ the blonde) and lock the doors till morning. If the so-called Shadow King wants to fight about it, Moran can ignore a few text messages.

He sends a ninth shot down the hatch to seal the deal with himself.

_“REACH OUT AND TOUCH FAITH!“_

The opening line sounds like an order, screamed disturbingly close to his ear.  Moran snaps to attention instinctively and slumps back down into his chair as the quick motion makes his head spin. _Was the music always that loud?_ The bass line roils and throbs like a storm through the air around him, and it’s difficult to pull a straight thought together to hold against it.

“Ladies and gentleman,” howls the clubs announcer, “ _Jamie!”_

He sees the shoes before he sees her. Black, of course. Slick latex boots, corseted front and back, with six inches of heel filed down to a lethal point. Sebastian’s mouth goes dry. His gaze pans up like a movie camera – even though he’s drunk enough to be seeing two of her, double’s not a problem.

Not with a girl who looks like _that._ Petite and so slim as to be nearly androgynous, with the curve of her lips painted the colour of blood. She’s got a wicked sway to her hips, small tits and a waist like a wasp – either that or a corset pulled so tight Moran’s surprised she can breathe. Sculpted black curls fall over her colourless shoulders, snagging and pulling at black lace on the rim of leather.

_And oh dear lord, her panties match._

She looks monochrome. She’s smiling at Sebastian like he’s dog-treats.

_We have a winner, folks._

Jamie doesn’t even make it through her set before he gets tired of waiting. Marilyn Manson is hissing _I will deliver, you know I'm a forgiver_ when Moran tosses the tenth shot aside and climbs onto the stage. Now at this point the stripper is either supposed to scream and flee for the stage doors, clutching her falsies or put up a mock fight before she admits he makes her wet. If she’s brave. But Jamie doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised. She crosses her arms over her still-covered chest and raises one sculpted eyebrow.

“Can’t even wait for the song to be over?”

“You’re coming home with me,” Sebastian tells her, getting in close so she has to tilt her head back to look up at him, even with the towering heels. He wonders if she can run in them. If she’d break her ankle trying.

“Oh, _Tiger_ ,” she breathes, “I was _counting_ on it.” A pause. “Only one small problem.”

“Hey, asshole, hands off the girls!”

The announcer sounds legitimately peeved. Two bouncers are making their way towards the stage with murderous intent. From the looks of things they’re part of the same gel-haired race as the bartender; bigger, though, bulging with muscles from the trendiest gyms.

“Not a problem at all,” Moran grins, giving the two douche-bags a quick glance over. Gym workouts are terrible practice for a fight and Seb takes down _Moriarty’s_ targets, for fuck’s sake.

Jamie smiles like a snakebite. “Go on, then, if you’re so tough. _Impress_ me.” And fuck if _that_ doesn’t go straight to Moran’s cock. This girl is making him pant for it, and the boots and corset are only half the problem.

 _Bad night to be a bouncer,_ Moran thinks with drunken and prophetic wisdom, as he hops off the stage.

\-------------

Two steps in the door of an anonymous apartment. He slams her face-first up against a wall, grabs her hips, and grinds his cock against her ass – just to feel her arch and writhe.

“Wait – “ she gasps, giggling. “ _Bad! Down,_ boy!”

But Moran doesn’t give a _fuck_ what she says, when she’s pressing her ass back against him like that. He sinks his teeth into her neck and she moans, surprisingly deep, flattening against the wall with something like submission. Her hair tangles around Seb’s lips and he reaches out to brush it away –

Which makes her wig falls off.

_What the –_

Full stop. Breath in. Danger response, fight-or-flight, stumble back, what the _bloody fucking hell_ –

Jamie’s still pressed against the wall. The wig looks like a small furred animal at her feet. Underneath it, she’s got very _short_ black hair, gleaming with oil.

“Aw, _boo_ ,” she groans.

_Oh no._

Not _she._ Because the stripper damn well isn’t _female._ He sends a mocking grin over his shoulder before he deigns to turn and – once Moran sees it, it’s inescapable. A thousand subtle changes in expression and posture give it away. Plus, well, ‘Jamie’s’ _cock_. Straining against the black lace lingerie, not that Sebastian is looking. Or thinking about how underneath the rough lace Jamie’s just as hard as Moran is. Seb keeps his eyes determinedly on Jamie’s face, but it’s not much help. There’s lipstick still smudged obscenely on his lip, his eyes are so blown they seem black-on-black and he’s panting – chest heaving against the corset.

Moran’s gut tightens. _Scale of one to ten, this should **definitely** not be turning him on._

“Something the matter, Tiger?” Jamie purrs with a saccharine smile. His voice is surprisingly deep when he’s not faking female.

“ _Fuck off_ ,” Moran hisses, “You’re a _bloke,_ Jesus, I nearly – “

“Don’t worry, doll, you’re still _going to_.” Now he’s drawling, bored and unconcerned. Moran’s fists clench.

“You have no idea who you’re – “

“ _I_ don’t have any idea who I’m dealing with? Don’t tell me you haven’t _guessed._ You were only ever there for _me,_ handsome _._ ” Sebastian freezes. Jamie totters forward on his sky high heels and wraps two slender arms around Sebastian’s neck. Their hips grind together, and Sebastian hisses through his teeth at the shocking vividness of it – forcing down the lurch of desire that makes him weak and stupid. Jamie smells like a drug, sweat and perfume. Seb is dizzy. Drunk all over again. Trying hard to focus… “Show up. Watch the girls. Do what comes naturally… J...”

“No.”

“ _M._ ”

“ _No_.”

“Surprise!” Jim Moriarty smiles, all teeth and bad intent. “No, really, _I_ don’t know who _you_ are?” He makes a _whoops_ face, and his voice drops to a low, slow growl. Moran can feel it thrum along his bones. Desire lurches in the pit of his stomach –and god _dam_ mit, that better have nothing to do with the way the fabric of Jim’s panties catches on his jean zipper. “Come on, Tiger, you never stood a chance.”

Sebastian tries to take a breath but there’s not enough oxygen between them. Jim bites his own bottom lip – pointed, sharp teeth startlingly bright against the red of his lipstick.

 _Blood and bone,_ Sebastian thinks. And then that’s all he has room for.

Two wiry hands clasp Sebastian’s jaw. Two thumbs shove under his chin, holding him in place, and although he struggles, Jim’s tongue thrusts into his mouth, violent and unforgiving.

Sebastian tries not to like it, but _fuck,_ Jim kisses like a natural disaster – unstoppable and overwhelming, with his entire body pressed hard against Sebastian’s. Jim doesn’t so much kiss Seb as _take_ him, tongue violating Seb’s mouth in quick sharp motions punctuated by bright flares of pain. The world goes narrow and dark.

Sebastian steals a gasp of air when Jim draws blood on his lip. “ _S-Sto-_ “

“If you manage to get the word out, Tiger, I actually _might_ , just to punish you.” Jim doesn’t so much let Sebastian’s face go as throw his head backwards. Sebastian’s neck snaps, and before he can gather his thoughts, Jim’s fingers are at the fastening of his jeans. There’s no fumbling and no awkwardness –a tight ring of fingers wraps around Sebastian’s shaft in one smooth, deft motion.

 _“Fuck!_ ”

“Good _boy_.” Jim works him with an unforgiving twist of the wrist at the top of each stroke, and Sebastian gasps like a fucking _teenager._ “ _Oh,_ Tiger, I’ve been _wanting_ that.”

Before Sebastian can catch his breath or come up with a witty rejoinder, Jim slides to his knees – fingers gone loose and still on Sebastian’s cock. There’s a glint at his earlobe, because of _course_ he’s wearing diamond ear-studs to match his winged eyeliner and ruined lipstick. The very tip of his pink tongue flicks out over his top lip. Moran groans, surrendering. His hand reaches forward almost of its own accord; carding through Jim’s hair, weaving the unruly strands back into place. Jim strokes Sebastian’s cock slow, root to tip.

“Say please,” he tells Seb, “Say _please_ or get nothing.”

 _Fuck._ If there’s a point of no return, this is it. Jim Moriarty, the most dangerous man in London, on his knees in front of Sebastian – wearing women’s underwear. _Am I really going to get off like this?_

Protesting is a waste of time. “ _Please!”_

Jim smiles. Triumph. It lights his face, all canines and malice, but Sebastian doesn’t have time to enjoy that – not with the way Jim swallows him down without hesitation, one quick bob until his lips hit the base of Sebastian’s cock. Seb catches himself from stumbling at the last possible second only by grabbing a fist-full of Jim’s hair. A strangled sound – something that might have been a curse, but doesn’t make it quite that far – bursts from his lips. His grip must be painfully tight but Jim doesn’t seem to mind; at least, not judging by the way he moans. His tongue flicks in sharp circles on Sebastian’s over-sensitive skin as he pulls off and slides back down again.

_That ought to be illegal._

“Fuck –  fuck – “

But that’s it.

One swallow. As quick as he started, Jim stops. Sebastian moans as the heat of Jim’s mouth withdraws – _no, fuck, stop, go back to that_. He chances a look down. Jim wears a mild, polite expression ruined by the heaving pace of his breath. A thin thread of saliva links his bottom lip and the tip of Seb’s cock.

 “Take off your pants,” he says calmly, smiling up at Sebastian. His eyes are fathomless, dark devouring holes. For all that Jim’s a dishevelled mess, his voice is dead level. “And if you dare come before me, Tiger, I’ll use you as a _rug._ ”

Sebastian’s jeans and boxers are easily kicked the rest of the way off. There’s a blind moment when he pulls his shirt off over his head. Of course – this being Jim Moriarty – that’s when hands plant on his thighs and push him roughly back. He nearly falls. His shoulder blades hit the doorframe of the bedroom and save him, a bright line of steadying pain up his back. Jim is on his feet when Sebastian throws his shirt to the side; eyes glinting, he shoves Seb back through the bedroom door.

This time Sebastian does fall. But he hits the bed, and that’s alright, because Jim is on him in a heart-beat without time for awkwardness. Those clever, dangerous hands pin Sebastian, throat and hip, tight and threatening. Sebastian’s breath rasps against the pressure on his wind-pipe. He’s _aching_ hard, and when the lace of Jim’s panties grinds down against his cock he thinks he might truly go mad.

Sebastian’s eyes squeeze shut. He claws desperately for self-control.

“That’s my kitten,” Jim purrs, “Good _boy._ ” There’s a squeeze of his fingertips and for a heart-stopping second Sebastian loses oxygen entirely. He squirms. Jim giggles, pleased. Then the pressure on Sebastian’s throat eases as he sits back, settling his weight over Sebastian’s hips with a truly _unfair_ roll of his hips.

The sound of a bottle of lube uncapping. _Where the fuck did that come from?_ From the motion and friction above him it seems like Jim’s shoved a hand down the back of his panties and is –  Fuck, he’s –

Jim hisses. Sebastian opens his eyes. Above him, Jim is rocking back onto his own hand, stretching himself open. He hasn’t taken the corset or the panties off. His cock is still pressed hard against them, tip poking out over the lace of the waistband. His eyes are closed, face screwed as he bites his lip and makes soft helpless noises.

Sebastian gives up trying to convince himself it isn’t hot, because _that_ is fucking _insane._

Altogether too soon Jim withdraws his fingers. There’s no _way_ he’s ready, but he’s shoving black lace impatiently to the side and positioning Sebastian with one hand on his shaft.

“Wait – ” Sebastian chokes out. _Not enough prep, too fast, you’re not –_

“I don’t _think_ so.”

Jim slams himself backwards.

Sebastian’s brain goes offline. Mindless golden pleasure jags through him like wildfire. His hips judder upwards, into the smooth rocking movement of Jim’s body. He grabs for Jim’s hips and his fingers twist in black lace until he damn near cuts off circulation.

“ _Oh god yes –_ “ Jim moans. He wraps a hand around his own cock, stroking as he crashes himself down onto Sebastian. His eyes have shut.

No room for holding-back, no room to object, no room for self-control. _Fuck –_ Sebastian digs his fingernails in again and angles his hips up. Jim cries out. He has to brace himself with one hand on Sebastian’s chest.

“Not yet,” he snarls, “Dammit, Tiger, _don’t you dare –_ “

Sebastian grins breathlessly. He’s not going to last anyways and here, finally, is one thing he can do to get Moriarty back. His fingers leave bruises on Jim’s hipbones, and Jim is growling hitching protests but it’s too late – Sebastian pounds upward into him in hard, short thrusts, chasing his own orgasm with single-minded focus. Jim makes a series of noises he doesn’t really have breath for, half-gasps stolen between panting. Sebastian gets a hand on his waist over the corset and rocks them harder together, ignoring the whine when he puts pressure on the stays.

Jim’s fingers on his cock make slick sounds, pre-cum and lube. His thumb caps his slit on each stroke as he tries desperately to keep up.  “Fuck – don’t you dare – don’t come yet – _Sebastian_ – “

Seb’s already riding the edge like a cliff. His name on those smudged and swollen lips sets a fire in his stomach. Three more thrusts and Sebastian throws himself over the brink gleefully, focus and discipline and any remaining objections all lost behind a swell and rush of pleasure like the end of the world. Jim doesn’t seem to mind.

Not judging by the way he goes rigid in response. He arcs back into his orgasm, cat-like and graceful, and his cum spatters over Sebastian’s bare chest. The thick white mess drips down into the red lines where Jim’s fingernails dug for blood and that stings but Sebastian couldn’t care less. He shudders underneath Jim on the bed. Harsh breath is the only audible sound.

Then Jim shoves his hair out of his face again, sits back, and says calmly. “Jim Moriarty. _Hi.”_


End file.
